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We got on well up till then,
as we gave birth
to A. I.;
a singularity of mind.

Divided innocence as insolence
all the wars!
and the dischord wraught!
He’s got a God complex.

The difference bred by divine pursuit
may provide the shit to shoot.
But this monumental
collapse of temper
has crafted us a hair suit

Track Name: Winnebago

Stop being so melodramatic.
Like sand through the hourglass, you’re talking out your arse.
Coprolalia sounds better than it tastes,
but these lessons of home grown folklore,
think I’ve heard ‘em all before.

You want your words to carry the weight of ten men, you pause for effect again.
I watch them roll out of your mouth, onto the floor, I watch them go;
each, more than the last, as contrived and insipid as the name on a Winnebago.

Worst of all is the typeface.
(there’s nothing worse than bad font)
It’s hard to understand these things when they’re in wingdings
(these wing ding things)
(Chorus)

Track Name: (To Be Blunt) You're A Cunt

You said “write down a negative thought
something that’s been weighing you down
throw it in the river and let it drown”.
You assured me it would be very cathartic.
I obeyed, to your will, ever the apparatchik.

Contrary to what was promised
it didn’t make me feel any better,
it just felt like glorified littering.
It’s this cheesy constriction that keeps me fettered.

Track Name: Never Look A .gif Horse In the Mouth

These red skeletal giraffes dot the horizon,
looming out of the thick industrial haze.
Strangers looking from afar may think,
these are the creatures of gentry ruling Botany Bay.
Ruling with an iron fist,
lifting and laying waste.
Too big for their boots
but still bound to Botany Bay.

Track Name: Bohemian (I Don't) Like You

Springtime and everybody’s getting infinitely more than I,
Springtime; all manner of creatures reaching out to bum a light.

Springtime and by right the birds are fucking the bees
The bees are fucking, the bees are fucking the trees

Springtime and by right the shores are fucking the seas,
as sure as they’re fucking the birds, the bees and the trees.

It’s still chilly in the friendly DMZ,
A frigid climate hangs over me.

Track Name: In The Throes Of Golf Woes; "It Was A Coarse Course Of Course."

Each time it comes as a surprise,
despite the singularity of my reprise.
Each time I think I can finally own up to my petulant past.

I fall into the same funk,
the room and I oddly shrunk,
a hole in the floor spewing sickly steaming muck;
the artesian well of zeal that’s just your luck.
The small room quickly fills,
and still the well spills.

It’s not just my wounded pride,
though theres that too.
It’s not just that I’m tired, though I’m that too.

It’s that I’m still a child,
my fixations still wild, and all the while
those I love are doomed to bear the weight
and those that would are forced to wait.

Track Name: Tim Has A Really Good Idea (...Again!)

’m scared of the rules, or lack thereof.
You want casual? Well my level of nonchalance is: unheard of.

All that’s left to do
after you confirmed my fears
is put on bright eyes
and Connor O-burst into tears.

I’m meant, I mean, there’s an expectation,
to be most, most grateful
for the scraps of attention
that fall sparingly from your table

Track Name: Close Enough For (Cap'n) Jazz

In the winter of the discontent of all with me
where there was once warm clarity
I gathered the cold baggage of others;
a garage sale of snowballed clutter.

A proud propensity to love once stood tall
once an earnest shout now a drawl
picking up bad habits and pitfalls;
shit that would make a younger self apalled.
Others scars I’ve traced on my side,
thorny indifference transferred to my hide.

(Shit that would make a younger self apalled)

Maybe its cos they’re the ones we admire most
that we mimic and inflict our hurts as a host.
Passing on the same insecurities
modelling their peculiarities.
Get left at a pole then forever man that post,
tied by colourful bonds that cut the most.

A garish wrapping
anually dragged tight
with all the ritual
ecstasy of a pagan rite.

Track Name: Tahini Meenie Miny Moe

My M.O. since you rejected me
is take up all your hobbies
and make someone fall in love with me
and let them down so easily
like you did for me.
Like you did for me,
like balloon animalry
inflated twisted and formed
from my own self pity;
that renewable source of energy.
That renewable source of energy.
I’ll find two X chromosomes
and craft an ex-girlfriend,
and she’ll probably look a bit like you.